


gentlemen in training

by marigolds



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Grinding, M/M, Thighs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marigolds/pseuds/marigolds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Shouldn’t this be weird?” Niall goes on to ask, laughing a little breathlessly. He chances a look at Harry’s face, half-smile caught on his mouth, cheeks flushed redder than normal, and Harry can’t imagine what he means. | Basically, Niall rides Harry's thigh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gentlemen in training

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much self-indulgent "Niall riding Harry's thigh" smut because of [this](http://media.tumblr.com/91ce6ae3be4dec3dde083257f05ccc3f/tumblr_inline_moklyjPlcC1qz4rgp.gif). I take no responsibility for my actions.
> 
> (If you're into tumblr, here's [mine](http://tomlinous.tumblr.com/). I ain't about shameless advertising, though.)

It’s one in the morning and it’s a hotel night and there’s alcohol, which are three things that should never collide while the boys are on tour. Liam and Louis are spooning on Harry’s bed, while Zayn broods silently in the corner and drunk-texts his girlfriend. Niall and Harry are at the foot of the hotel bed, playing FIFA on the hotel television, which is a bit questionable, honestly, as no one knows who brought the console up from the bus.  
  
It doesn’t really matter, though -- they’re all drunk and loose and Harry is kicking Niall’s arse.  
  
“Hazza,” Louis slurs from the bed, disentangling himself from Liam and _literally_ slithering down to the foot of the bed until his upper body is completely off of the mattress, arms curled around Harry’s neck and shoulders and chin pressing into his shirt. “M’gonna go to bed,” he puffs into Harry’s ear, breath warm and alcohol-sour.  
  
“Yeah,” Harry says distractedly, “okay.” He tilts his head slightly and pecks the side of Louis’ mouth, a perfunctory gesture that is probably more normal than they’d like the crazier fans to know. “G’night,” he adds, belatedly, cursing as one of his players gets fouled by Niall’s.  
  
Louis pouts, nuzzling his nose into Harry’s cheek. “I’ll be lonely,” he whines, but Harry knows without looking the ends of his lips are quirked up, eyes glowing with mischievousness. Louis is rarely tasteful with his jokes, but they’re decidedly less so when he’s drunk, bringing up the alluded “Larry Stylinson” in private whenever he has the chance, merely to remind them both that there isn’t anything there. Harry  sometimes thinks Louis tries too hard to prove it, but he grins nonetheless, nudging Louis away with his shoulder.  
  
“You’ll live.” Harry doesn’t even bother checking Louis’ reaction, eyes glued to the television screen, but the calculated huff is enough to know that he’s done teasing, likely bored with it. There’s a shuffling sound as Louis flops off the mattress, waving in everyone’s general direction as he goes.  
  
“Hold on, I’m coming with you,” Zayn murmurs from his corner, standing up on wobbly legs. He glances towards Liam, snorting when he finds that he’s sound asleep, clutching a pillow close to his head. “Want me to wake him up?” Zayn asks Harry, cocking a brow.  
  
“Leave ‘em,” Louis answers when Harry immediately doesn’t. “These two’ll wake him up with their -- game playing or summat.” It isn’t the best barb Louis has ever come up with, Harry notes, but he supposes it can be excused since he’s drunk. “Later boys,” Louis adds, letting Zayn leave first with a similar quip, the door shutting behind them.  
  
“Reckon they’re gonna smoke?” Niall asks, pressing a few buttons quickly with one hand and reaching for a handful of chips with the other. He’s getting grease all over his controller, but Harry’s either too distracted or tipsy to mind all that much. “I know Zayn had another baggie with ‘em.”  
  
“Mm, probably,” Harry agrees, grinning as he scores a pretty impressive goal.  
  
“Fuck off,” Niall complains, but it’s good-natured as always. He pauses the game and takes another swig from the vodka they snuck onstage by pouring it into water bottles. “I can never win this sodding game anymore,” Niall adds, pressing the resume with a little more force than absolutely necessary. “I could beat you before you started playing with Louis.”  
  
Harry snorts, motioning for the water bottle. Niall passes it over and Harry takes a swig, making a face at the taste. He’s not half as wasted as the others are, buzzed more from the post-concert high than the booze, and Niall laughs at him, playfully calls him a pussy. “Can’t hold your liquor,” he says, shaking his head in mock-disappointment.  
  
“Can still kick your arse at FIFA,” Harry jabs, taking another swig and pointedly _not_ pulling a face at the burning sensation as it trickles down his throat. Niall chuckles, shaking his head, though both boys jolt as a loud snore comes from the bed behind them. They glance at each other and then burst into a hysterical fit of giggles, mindfully trying to stifle them as not to wake Liam.  
  
“Forgot he was here,” Niall says, wheezing a bit as he tries to talk through his laughter.  
  
“Yeah.” Harry twists his head to get a look at him, a few quieter noises escaping his parted lips before his breath evens out and goes silent. “He’s cute when he’s asleep,” Harry states through a lopsided grin.  
  
“Downright adorable,” Niall agrees.  
  
“Bit like a puppy,” Harry adds.  
  
“We should put his hand in water,” Niall says, grinning devilishly as Harry barks with laughter.  
  
“That’d be a little rude,” Harry reprimands, though a smile lingers at the corners of his mouth. “You wouldn’t want anyone to put _your_ hand in water.”  
  
“No one’s _going_ to put my hand in water,” Niall argues, but there doesn’t seem to be any heat behind his words, no intention behind a mock-threat. This is made clear by him turning his attention back to the game, scoring a goal while Harry’s still somewhat distracted.  
  
“ _Hey_ ,” Harry drawls, “that’s cheating.”  
  
“You’re still ahead of me,” Niall reminds him, reaching for the bottle again and taking a swig. He passes it to Harry, who copies him, eyes starting to droop as it really starts to kick in. Niall’s right, unfortunately -- Harry’s a bit of a lightweight. Can’t hold his liquor, and all that. “Alright,” Niall says finally. “Things are about to go down.”  
  
*  
  
Unfortunately for Niall, the only thing that goes down is his team. Harry’s won three rounds in a row and his cheeks are pinked and he’s getting louder, brasher with alcohol sloshing around in his stomach, making his eyes swim. When he scores the final goal to secure yet another victory, he throws his hands up in celebration, whooping.  
  
“Bugger off,” Niall says, petulantly tossing his controller aside. It skids across the floor and stops a few feet away, but Harry pays no mind to the clattering sound, too thrilled with yet another win. “You can stop now,” Niall adds, arching a brow at Harry’s increasingly ridiculous hollering.  
  
“I am the FIFA Champion,” Harry replies regally, though he suspects that much of his idiotic giddiness comes from the vodka. “Bow down to me,” he continues, ignoring the increasingly annoyed looks that Niall is giving him.  
  
“Blow me,” Niall spits, though his mouth tips up at his own joke. He’s left fighting a bigger smile at Harry’s expression of shock, mouth shaped into an almost perfect oval. Niall barrels on, perhaps driven by vodka as much as the hopes of aggravating him, “S’not like you ‘aven’t got the mouth for it, eh?”  
  
“How very dare you,” Harry responds, pressing a hand over his chest. “That’s no way to talk to a lady.”  
  
Niall snorts, shaking his head, blonde strands of hair flopping this way and that. “You’re no lady.”  
  
“I could be,” Harry says, “if I wanted. Science is amazing right now.”  
  
“You’re pissed,” Niall laughs, leaning forward to give Harry a playful shove.  
  
“ _You’re_ pissed,” Harry retorts. “You’re both kinds of pissed.” He pushes against Niall’s shoulder with a heavy hand, knocking him back, slightly. It’s enough for Niall to lunge, shoving at Harry’s shoulders until he flops onto his back. Niall climbs over him, bracketing one thigh between his knees and keeping him pinned.  
  
The thing is, Harry knows he could overpower Niall in a heartbeat; he’s bigger and stronger and doesn’t skip out on gym time in favor of McDonald’s. It’s just -- he doesn’t really want to, maybe even feels like he _owes_ it to him not to. He’s already ruthlessly beaten him a number of times during their impromptu FIFA tournament; he might as well let Niall have this one, so he fights back just enough to let Niall think he’s actually trying.  
  
“You’re not actually trying,” Niall says and his face is so accusatory that Harry bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Niall looks bemused for a moment but then he’s laughing, too, dropping his forehead into the juncture of Harry’s neck and shoulder and cackling, chest heaving with the movement. “I’m pissed,” Niall says through his giggles.  
  
“Yeah,” Harry agrees, “yeah, me too,” he says again, attempting to lift his legs only for his thigh to press against Niall’s -- “Er,” Harry says, eyebrows furrowing. “Not to be intrusive, but do you have a stiffy?”  
  
Niall hesitates a moment before shrugging. “A bit, yeah. Sorry.”  
  
“Oh. Okay,” Harry says, blinking slowly. He’s used to Niall being pretty laid-back about most things, but he’s mildly concerned with how unbothered Niall seems with this, well, somewhat compromising situation. “So are you gonna...?” Harry starts, but he isn’t sure where he had intended to go with that. His brain has short-circuited, every sense focused on Niall, the warmth of him pressed into his thigh, the smell of alcohol on his breath. “I mean, you can -- like. Whatever.” Harry swallows thickly, wondering if he’s making any sense at all, if Niall understands what he means.  
  
Of course, this is a lot closer than Harry had ever intended to get with Niall, but he isn’t necessarily opposed to it. They’re drunk, the feeling of Niall’s erection is making him half-hard, and he could totally have a wank right now if his arms weren’t pinned down by Niall’s hands around his wrists. He’s tossed off to the thought of his bandmates before -- Louis, specifically, more than the others -- so it perhaps doesn’t worry him as much as it should when Niall starts rolling his hips forward for friction, making tight little circles over Harry’s thigh and letting out a puff of breath into the hair at the nape of his neck.  
  
“I’m really horny,” Niall confesses quietly, loosening his grip on Harry’s wrists and sitting up. He balances his hands on Harry’s chest, instead, sliding over Harry’s thigh quicker, now, chinks tinged pink from more than alcohol. “I -- ” he starts, cut off by his cock catching his jeans in just the right way, a breathless sound leaving his lips. “I can stop,” he offers, but Harry is already reaching for him, rucking up his teeshirt and pressing his fingers into the exposed skin of his waist, pushing in.  
  
“No, don’t,” Harry breathes, voice rugged, lower than normal. “It’s fine,” he adds as an afterthought, as though leaving it at _don’t_ may be taken the wrong way completely.  
  
“Shouldn’t this be weird?” Niall goes on to ask, laughing a little breathlessly. He chances a look at Harry’s face, half-smile caught on his mouth, cheeks flushed redder than normal, and Harry can’t imagine what he means.  
  
“Uh, probably,” he responds, hitching his thigh up for Niall’s benefit, reveling in the surprised grunt punched out of him with the movement. Harry uses one hand to unbutton and unzip his jeans, shoving them out of the way so he can palm himself over his briefs. He shivers at his own touch, the pleasure rippling through him like a wave. “If it’s weird in the morning we’ll say we were blackout drunk, yeah?” Harry tries to laugh but he hisses instead, Niall shifting upwards, rutting into Harry’s hipbone more than his leg.  
  
“Sounds perfect, mate,” Niall responds, eyes flickering to Harry’s hand before his gaze focuses somewhere on Harry’s torso, probably between his own hands. He circles his hips, arse and balls pressed tight to Harry’s thigh, and releases a stuttering breath, eyelashes fluttering. “Shit,” he mutters, shifting back down and fucking his hips forward, as though there’s something for his cock to fit into instead of two layers of denim.  
  
His hands are pushing against Harry’s chest hard enough that he feels short of breath, but Harry likes how lightheaded he feels, how much he has to focus on breathing. His dick is tenting the fabric of his pants, and Harry finally gives in with a groan, pulling his cock out and running a hand over himself dry, bucking unconsciously into the touch and causing Niall to slide forward on his thigh.  
  
“Sorry,” Harry apologizes, voice raspy with sex. He lifts his hand and licks over his palm, slicking it with his own spit before he wraps his fingers around his cock, stroking upwards and thumbing over the slit.  
  
“Fuck, Haz -- ” Niall breathes, balancing on one hand and using the other to pop the button on his pants and palm over his erection briefly as he grinds down on Harry’s thigh, hips moving less rhythmically the closer he gets to his orgasm.  
  
“Think you can get off like that?” Harry asks hoarsely, running a hand over his cock even more quickly, the distinct slapping sound seeming entirely too loud in the room. “By just -- _fuck_ \-- rubbing against me?”  
  
Niall lets out a sharp breath, a soft whine tagged to the end and he jerks forward faster, trying to get more friction.  
  
“Gonna come in your pants?” Harry goes on, panting with the effort of trying not to buck up into his hand. He’s so close and he thinks Niall is, too, if the jagged rhythm of his thrusts and the redness of his cheeks are hints to go by.  
  
“If you don’t stop fucking talking I might,” Niall grits out, though Harry suspects he will whether he’s talking or not; he looks _so_ close, flushed all the way down to his chest and little whimpers clawing their way out of his mouth with each press of his cock to Harry’s thigh.  
  
It’s ridiculously hot, somehow, knowing that Niall is going to come from just this, and Harry’s cock twitches and blurts pre-come at the thought. “C’mon,” he urges, pressing his thigh up against Niall’s crotch as he ruts into it, causing his breath to catch over a groan. “C’mon, _fuck_ , Niall -- I’m gonna -- ” Harry’s whole body freezes, toes curling as he comes over his own fist with a low moan.  
  
He strokes himself through it as Niall speeds up, little grunts leaving his lips as he finally releases his load into his jeans, hips rocking forward as he rides it out, dropping heavily onto Harry when he finishes, forehead against his shoulder.  
  
The boys take a moment to gather themselves, chests rising and falling with their breathing, before Harry finally breaks the sated quiet with a chuckle. “That was...probably weird,” he says, reaching up with his clean hand to brush the curls from his eyes. “Wow.” He laughs again, scrubbing his fingers through Niall’s hair fondly once his own is out of his face.  
  
“I hope that doesn’t have jizz on it,” Niall grumbles into his shoulder, but Harry can feel his grin, pressed into his collarbone. He sits up after a minute, catching Harry’s eye, smile never faltering. “Weird,” he says.  
  
“Very,” Harry agrees, chuckling low in his throat.  
  
“Alcohol is very bad,” Niall decides, lifting one of his legs over Harry’s and moving into a sitting position. He glances down at his jeans, grimacing. “Poor decisions all around.”  
  
“Very poor decisions. The poorest,” Harry says, propping himself up on his elbows and glancing around for something to wipe his hands on. His eye catches the box of tissues on the bedside table.  
  
“I think,” Niall starts, eyeing Harry as he pushes himself onto his feet, legs shaky from coming, “I’m going to go to my room.”  
  
“By all means,” Harry responds, tucking his cock into his pants and zipping himself one-handed. He wanders towards the box, plucking a few tissues and wiping off his hand before catching movement on the bed out of the corner of his eye. “Oh my God,” he says.  
  
“What?” Niall asks, peaking over the mattress. “Oh -- ” he starts, eyes widening. “Oh, _shit_.”  
  
Liam, who’s head is buried underneath a pillow, only murmurs, “I fucking hate you both,” before pretending to fall back to sleep.


End file.
